I went through old photographs left by my mother that were not torn up. To see pictures of my childhood, perhaps some of my father’s, too. I realized I have changed so much on the outside. Every ten years, I feel as though I genuinely look like a different person. Not just on the outside but on the inside too. I looked at one picture in particular. I now know why I like it. In it: It’s always this feeling of returning, of playing under the sun surrounded by grass, held by everything, and so light that the tether to the body was delicate and the next second irrelevant.

There
it is
The Earth
holding
us

When the hinges on the door open and the windows too leave their frame, and all that is about and around is the night’s sultry dark
Remember that the warmth of possibility
is the infinite count of stars above, always endless and shining for you–

beauty is a hinge of words that then becomes a ray passing through the window, glistening bright, the golden bowls over the table are full.

a swallow flew by
in early morning hours
i  asked it to fly under
your chin and lift it
if ever it was down
or if  the words of another
became torrential rain
that they may lend you
the oil on their wings
so that all which
could dampen you
slides off

Don’t make me an urn, make me a botellon de Barro for water.

Tell me as many times as you want that I should make a coffin, I will still make the frame of my bed first
, and over it, I will make love. I will make love

I pick goldenrod flowers to put in water, a smile calling joy.  
I open a bag of obleas de amaranto and crack one in half to make the meaningful.
I sit on a mat with a window overlooking pine trees, watching every sorrow and happiness shimmer over my green needles of experience while accepting I am just an observer watching through my eyes’ windows.